Raindrops
by ThatClutzsarahh
Summary: With each drop that slides down the windowpane she feels worse. Maybe somewhere out there, there is a Peter Bishop for her.


**Raindrops**

* * *

It's raining. Again.

It is always raining here. It never seems to stop. Or if it does stop raining, it goes unnoticed by her because the sunny warm days blur together into nothingness and the wet dreary days slowly pass. Today is like every day she can remember now, wet and dark, cold and unforgiving, where each raindrop that hits the window makes her hurt just a little more than before. She's staring out the window in the apartment's living room and she hears the bustle of the other body behind her. She feels even worse than before.

If two universes exist, then maybe somewhere, there is a Peter Bishop in yet another universe for her. He is unlike him; Peter has so much love in him. It's like he's a young teenager, loving for the first time. Only it's every time he sees her. And it breaks her down inside even more. Sometimes she wishes she could abort the whole mission and tell him, look him in the eyes and say the right, honest thing. She wants to say the most heartbreaking words to him.

I'm not Olivia Dunham.

Well she is Olivia Dunham, but she's not his Olivia Dunham. As she watches a particularly fat drop of water streak the windows of _her_ apartment, she feels her insides churn. She's doing this for the job. She has to constantly remind herself of that. But when Peter looks at her like that, with his big endearing and loving green eyes, she breaks down. It's no longer just a job. It's become personal. She does well disconnecting emotions from work but she cannot do so here. Her body aches for the love that Peter pours into her. She wonders if she's falling for him too, just like her other self had. She shakes her fake-dyed blonde hair and feels a cold, heartless shiver run through her body. Was this really worth it?

She thinks about the secretary. He's so different than the man that should be the secretary here. Walter here, as he's so called, is so different. Broken. Less whole. He's fragile. Fragmented. The secretary, he is so whole. A presence. She wonders if he thinks he's God. Walter here speaks of God, but the secretary, does he play him? There is a light wind outside that pushes a heavy amount of raindrops against the window and she can feel them in her body, through the glass. Like single needles piercing her skin and hitting her in her most sensitive nerves, exposing her from the inside out. She wants to no longer run this mission. Guilt ridden and breaking, she turns her face and drags it towards his.

He's so alive. He's so vibrant. He's full of colors like greens, browns, blues and grays. _Her_ closet lacks these colors. _She _stocks it full of blacks and dark grays and whites. She is so different from her, and to put on this outer skin and try to be the one he loves is hard. She loves the color red, the vibrant oranges and yellows. What could break a woman so much like her into pieces that can only be collected by the dark colors that surround her both in her work and in her clothing? She's never felt anything like that and the pain can't be comprehended. She doesn't understand this woman and it makes her feel worse for stealing her life.

She surrounds herself with friends like Peter, happy and vibrant. But she can feel the cloud that hangs overhead- she can see the elephant in the room. There is a dark, looming shadow that hangs over her, no matter where she goes. What happened to _her_? She wonders what caused this shadow to be cast, what this weight was. Her colleagues at the FBI building walk on eggshells around her, silent snickers and judging eyes. It bothered her when she first crossed over, it was like they knew they could tell she wasn't the right Olivia. She braced for it, the moment they busted her, but it never came. She was never found out. Still the feeling that everyone was constantly judging her followed her around the office.

He's in the kitchen now and she buries her face into her blanket that she's wrapped herself in. She constantly reminds herself it's only a mission, but playing him like some kind of instrument is getting harder and harder everyday. She inhales the scent of the blanket and she can still hint at the undertone of a foreign smell that must be her but it smells so much like her now. She has to forget her past, where she's from, who she loves and she must become this new Olivia Dunham, she must become a solider in hiding. And she was so good for so long, but Human nature is flawed by morals and consciences. She feels the black cloud eclipsing her inside and she knows she's been gone to long.

Maybe, just maybe, if there are more than two universes, maybe this Olivia Dunham is from one of those. Maybe she is like Peter, kidnapped and stolen and out of place. Her memory is foggy, like Peter's and she really belongs somewhere else. Maybe this universe's Olivia Dunham never existed. So was she taking the place of a woman who never was? The questions swarm her already muddled brain and she can't think straight. She squeezes her eyes shut and inhales again, this time taking in the scent of whatever he was cooking in the kitchen. It smells like bacon, but she couldn't be sure. He was so good to her, too good to her. She wants out, but she wants to stay.

She wonders how Olivia was on the other side now. Was she struggling? Or was she brainwashed so well that she easily stole her spot just as planned? Was she caged still like the animal they think she is or was she sleeping in the bed next to the man she loves, just as she was doing here? A surge of both jealousy and hurt rage through her and she unfolds her legs, placing them on the cold, chilling hardwood floor of a home she's come to know well. Had she adapted? Was she well? That Olivia, the one who he calls for every night when she's with him, does she think of her as well? Is she upset? Would she come back to get her? She tries to keep the questions at bay, but they swarm her head and she has to leave, standing up and heading for the bathroom with quiet pads of her feet. She locks the door and stares in the mirror.

She suddenly has hatred for her double. She doesn't want to be a double. She should have shot her when she had the chance. Then none of this would have happened. She wouldn't be here with the man that loves her and she wouldn't be there with the man that loves her. She wonders why Peter was so special, why two worlds were fighting over him. She has watched him, she's seen him from the inside out and she cannot understand how someone could love this man for who he really was. He was cold from the inside, swallowed be hatred for his father. He blames him for the death of his mother. So he hides his broken parts away with flashy displays of oozing charms and mysterious smiles. He's like a poisonous frog, flashy and beautiful color on his exterior but poisoning on the inside. She wonders how her, the other her, changes him so and how she was unable to figure it out, even though he does not know. Or, if he knows the switch happened, he plays along so well that even she, the master of deception can't see his deceiving plan. She turns the water off and unlocks the door, heading back to sit in the living room.

It's still raining. She doesn't know when it ever stops or if it ever had all together. She feels like the whole while she's been here she's under this constant haze of rain and gloom. Maybe she'll see Newton tomorrow and tell him she wants to go home. Maybe she'll tell Peter the truth. Maybe she'll do both. Maybe she'll write a neat letter explaining everything to Peter and leave, finding Newton to take her home. He can't refuse her she's his boss. Maybe she can fix her mess. She can fix the damage she's caused. She'll send her home, to this man, this sweet, gentle, funny and wickedly wonderful man that loves the wrong her now. Maybe she won't tell Peter. The less he knows the better. Maybe she'll let this wickedly wonderful man hate her. It's the least she could do. She's filled her head with maybes and she can hear him fumbling with two mugs. He's coming to find her and give her coffee this morning. She pulls the blanket up to keep out the cold, but it's an inner chill. She's the source of the cold. She hasn't decided what will happen tomorrow. Maybe it will be sunny. That would be a sign. Yes, if she sees the sun tomorrow she'll tell him and leave and she'll fix everything. She believes it in her head and smiles to herself. It's all maybes for her in the future.

So for now she'll just watch raindrops.


End file.
